by Pam Crooks
Not for the first time, Lance inwardly cursed the gunfighter for his lack of concern toward Vince’s health.
“Reckon it’s a good thing Mr. Mancuso had his attack here and not out on the range alone,” Charlie commented.
“Yeah.”
“How’s he doin’?”
“Doc’s afraid pneumonia’ll set in.”
“Damn.”
“We’ll take it one day at a time. Meanwhile, it’s business as usual.”
Charlie nodded. “Miss Sonnie fussin’ about her pa?”
The mere mention of her name tripped the steady beat of Lance’s heart. “She is.”
The cowboy sighed in understanding, and the conversation fell to ranch affairs until long after the tobacco had been smoked and the stubs flicked into nearby shrubbery. Charlie eventually yawned and departed, shuffling toward the bunkhouse with the tired tread of a man who’d more than earned his wages for the day.
Lance rubbed the back of his neck and went inside the Big House. Though he detected a faint aroma of brewed toffee, no lights shone in the house except from Vince’s bedroom. Sauntering down the quiet hall, he halted in the doorway at the sight of Sonnie inside.
She’d fallen asleep in an oversize chair next to the bed. Her stockinged feet were curled beneath her, and her head drooped to one side. An open book, its story abandoned, lay cradled in her lap. Only Vince’s deep, steady breathing broke the hush of the room.
Emotion spread through Lance. Moving closer, he squatted on his haunches next to her and took full advantage of the opportunity to simply watch her sleep.
He drank in the sight of her tresses, glinting like black diamonds in the lamp’s glow and tumbling in thick confusion about her shoulders. Flawless in its creation, her olive-hued skin accentuated the dark shade, and her bow-shaped lips, softly parted in slumber, beckoned his.
He almost gave in to the temptation. To steal a kiss now, when she slept and was unaware, was all too indicative of his cowardice toward her.
Or any other woman, for that matter.
No, when and if he ever kissed Sonnie Mancuso again, she would be a full participant, willing and wide-awake as hell.
He reached over and carefully pulled the book from her unresisting grasp. Despite his efforts, however, her eyes opened slowly. She focused on him and raked slender fingers through her hair.
“Guess I fell asleep, Boss Man.”
The sheer sultriness of her voice tugged at his restraints. A corner of his mouth lifted.
“Guess you did,” he said and set the book aside.
“What time is it?”
He didn’t bother to look at the clock on Vince’s bedside table. “Late.”
She made no effort to rise; instead she burrowed deeper into the chair’s brocade.
“Have you been outside all this time?” She laid the palm of her hand against his cheek. “You’re cold.”
He almost turned his face into the warmth of her skin, almost pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.
Almost.
“I was talking to Charlie.”
“Oh.” She withdrew her hand.
“How’s your arm?”
“Better. It doesn’t throb anymore.”
He nodded . . and wanted her to touch him again.
Her dark head swiveled, and she studied her father. “He’s sleeping soundly. I hope he has a good night.”
“He will. He’s a stronger cuss than you realize.”
He plucked her shoes from the floor and straightened from his hunkered position. “Time for you to go upstairs.”
She pondered him for a moment through her sable lashes, then extended her hand toward him. Her mouth softened.
“Help me up, Lance.”
Without hesitation, his fingers closed around hers and pulled. She unfurled from the chair’s cushion and stood before him, so close the hem of her skirt brushed his pant legs.
He inhaled her sweet scent and stared into the obsidian pools of her eyes, wishing that if he ever were to drown, it would be right here, in them.
He lifted her hand and dropped a kiss over the silken knuckles.
A barely discernible sigh escaped her. Her glance drifted over the skin his lips just touched. The corners of her mouth dipped.
“My shoes, please,” she said, as if she wanted something else instead.
Lance had forgotten he still held them. She took the pair and moved toward the hall, halting within the doorway.
“Sleep well, Boss Man.” A little smile softened her mouth.
He watched her leave and doubted he’d sleep worth a damn. He extinguished Vince’s lamp and found his way through the blanket of darkness of the office.
After lighting the room, he noticed Sonnie’s edition of Special Report on Diseases of Cattle on the desk. He picked up the book, skimmed through the chapter titles, and found several that teased his interest.
He began to understand why she put such value in it. The manual brimmed with information on a wide variety of topics. He conceded he could learn a thing or two himself.
Besides, the report’s findings would help keep him from dwelling on her.
He stepped to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a shot of bourbon, his attention hooked by a section entitled “Noncontagious Diseases of the Organs of Respiration.”
Something on the floor distracted him. Medicine bottles were scattered about the floral carpet. It was little wonder Sonnie, in her panic and fear, hadn’t remembered they were there.
An envelope lay near the strewn bottles, its age evident in the room’s shadowy light. Lance set aside his drink and book, then knelt to retrieve it.
He read the words printed on the outside. In growing puzzlement, he removed the paper folded inside and scanned its contents.
A ball of dread formed in the pit of his stomach.
He read the document again, slower this time. The subject hit him hard with the full potential of its consequence, and he breathed a savage expletive.
What the hell could Vince have been thinking of?
Chapter 10
“Tell me her name again.”
Lance had forgotten. In all the tomfoolery it had taken to get him here, the woman’s name escaped him completely.
“Gracie,” Shorty said with infinite patience. “Gray-cee.”
Lance nodded and shuffled his feet in the dirt. He would remember. He couldn’t forget again and look more stupid than he did right now.
They stood in front of her little house. A whole group of them, Mancuso cowboys fresh off the spring roundup. Full of spirit and wired for fun, they intended to kick off the night with a visit to Gracie’s.
But only Lance would be going inside. How he came this far, he had no idea. Why he’d agreed, he didn’t know.
And his courage left him in a whoosh. He couldn’t go through with it, this visit to a woman far more experienced than he. He couldn’t perform the act with her like everyone wanted and expected.
Lance turned aside to break loose, but they wouldn’t let him go. A myriad of hands and hoots of laughter kept him firmly in place, and he cast a helpless look at Shorty.
The cowboy thrust a wad of crumpled bills into Lance’s fist. “Here. Just lay these on the table when you git inside. She’ll know what you’re there fer.”
“I can’t,” he said quietly in a futile attempt to save face in front of the other men. “I don’t even know her. I don’t love her. She doesn’t love me.”
“Love!” Shorty seemed amazed at the idea. “Love don’t have nothin’ to do with it. She’s a businesswoman. Everythin’ boils down to the almighty dollar and any way she can git it.”
“I can’t do this.” Lance groaned, trying to wrench himself free from the persistent grips holding him.
“She’ll teach you all you need to know. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“Shorty, you son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, well, that might be, but one of these days you’re gonna thank me.” Hi
s gap-toothed grin widened. “Can’t have you bein’ a virgin all your life now, can we?”
Lance fairly seethed from frustration. Remaining a virgin would have to be better than the humiliation he endured in front of these men he called friends. What could be worse than being the laughingstock of the entire Mancuso outfit?
Shorty planted a hand on Lance’s shoulder and pushed. Lance stumbled forward and found himself a few steps closer to the little house’s front door.
“Just remember,” Shorty called from behind him. “You ain’t a man till you had a woman.”
The challenge hit a raw nerve. His pride stung; his spine stiffened. He closed the distance between himself and the house.
You ain’t a man till you had a woman.
He rapped his knuckles on the door and waited.
* * *
True to his word, Doc Tanner returned to the Rocking M two days later. Fretfully worried about the cough beginning to plague her father, Sonnie hung back throughout the examination with bated breath, sure her worst fears would be realized.
They were. Doc confirmed her worries of early pneumonia and declared that a stay at County Hospital in Cheyenne was paramount. Sonnie tried to soothe Papa’s emphatic protests that he would recuperate just fine from treatment and care right there on the Rocking M, and though the doctor conceded that his admission into the hospital could wait until the morning, neither he nor Sonnie budged from the decision, and Papa fell back into the pillows with wheezy grumbles of complaint.
Even his plea to Lance failed. After the doc’s departure, Lance had taken Sonnie’s side of the argument, reasoning that, since the Wyoming Stockmen’s Association’s meeting and dinner would be held the following night, the trip into Cheyenne couldn’t be avoided. Whereas Lance and Sonnie would stay in a hotel, Papa’s placement in the hospital assured him of prompt updates of the proceedings, and he was finally placated.
Thus Sonnie spent the rest of the day preparing for the important event. As a spokeswoman for her father, it was imperative that she be well dressed and appear poised, confident, and informed of Association matters. Between keeping a watchful eye on Papa and packing trunks she’d only recently unpacked, the time flew with amazing speed.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, with enough nip in the air to warrant wearing the fashionable new cloak and matching velvet hat she’d brought back from Rome. Lance had ordered the black-and-gold stagecoach pulled around to the front of the Big House, and when he noticed the orderly mountain of baggage waiting on the porch, his tawny brow quirked.
But he said nothing and hefted the largest piece onto his shoulder. He’d been preoccupied of late, and Sonnie couldn’t fathom why. Though Papa’s worsening condition kept him on the ranch, Lance took his meals at the bunkhouse, rose early, and worked grueling hours until late, pausing only now and then to check in on her father.
Sonnie found herself missing him.
Was his mood due to something she’d said or done? Did he worry unduly over Papa’s health? The uncertainty spawned a frown and an unladylike nibble on the inside of her lip.
Her glance shifted toward the stagecoach, gleaming in the bright sunlight. Once again she marveled at its majestic style and quality. After depositing a basket of food and a small satchel inside, she ran a discerning hand over the door’s shiny paint.
“The coach is magnificent.” She took advantage of the opportunity to converse with Lance. “Whatever possessed Papa to buy it?”
He shifted her trunk from his shoulder to a storage compartment at the back of the rig.
“His work with both the Association and the ranch required frequent trips into Cheyenne and surrounding states. The coach made traveling easier.” He faced her and hooked a thumb into the hip pocket of his Levi’s. “But it’s mine, Sonnie. Bought and paid for with my own money.”
She gaped at him. “Yours?”
He nodded. A touch of wry amusement graced his lips and softened his somber expression. “Had it built and shipped from Denver to my specifications. Are you surprised I might have some wealth of my own?”
She detected a hint of defensiveness, of challenge, in the quietly voiced question. Her assumption that only Papa could afford such a fine rig flustered her, and her cheeks pinkened.
“Your father pays me well, and I’ve accumulated a tidy sum in my accounts over the years,” he said. “I’ve earned every dime, Sonnie. Never think that Vince Mancuso coddled me or showed me favoritism. Everything I have, I earned with my own sweat.”
His tone, earnest and emphatic, quashed the tiny stirring of suspicion that Papa might have, indeed, favored him. Lance Harmon, she’d begun to learn, was a man of pride. Decent and principled.
She wanted to tell him so, but his attention focused on someone behind her. She turned to find Jake McKenna approaching with a purposeful, bowlegged stride.
“Am I riding into Cheyenne with you?” he demanded of Lance, not sparing Sonnie a glance. He halted and set his hands on his hips, his glare a tangible show of animosity.
“Hadn’t planned on it,” Lance replied.
Tension shimmered between the two men.
“Why not?”
“We’re shorthanded. I need you to work the ranch while we’re gone.”
“Work? Damn it, that’s all I’ve done lately is work around here.”
Lance narrowed an eye at the vehement protest. “You broke the rules, McKenna. You had to pay the price.”
“I’m entitled to some time off just like everyone else. Half the outfit is going with you. I want to go, too.”
In spite of herself, Sonnie took pity on him. Lance had enacted swift punishment after the card game in the bunkhouse, heaping chore after chore upon him until, in Sonnie’s mind, McKenna’s crime had been vindicated. Guiltily aware of her own part in the affair, she was moved to step in on his behalf.
“Lance, couldn’t you give in and let him go with us?” she asked gently. She rested her hand on his muscular forearm in a subtle plea for compassion. “It wouldn’t seem fair to make him stay.”
He dragged his gaze from the cowboy and considered her for long moments. She sensed the war he waged within himself; a tiny muscle in his chiseled jawline leaped in evidence of the battle.
Finally, he gave her a curt nod and swung his attention back to the cowhand.
“You have Miss Mancuso to thank for my leniency,” he said, as if he’d relented against his better judgment. “Grab your things. We’re pulling out in ten minutes.”
Jake’s glance lighted on Sonnie for a brief second, but showed no gratitude or relief. Wordlessly, he spun on his heel and stepped toward the bunkhouse.
“McKenna.”
The cowboy halted.
“You gonna behave yourself on the trip?” Lance asked with deceptive softness.
“Don’t talk down to me, Harmon,” Jake said in a snarl.
“Mess up once, and you’re out of a job.”
Sonnie swallowed at the hard tone of Lance’s warning. Jake stormed off in a cursing huff, and, worried she’d been mistaken in intervening, she ventured a tentative peek at Lance.
The flare of his nostrils revealed a lingering distrust for the man. He turned and caught her studying him. His eyes meshed with hers for several pulsating heartbeats.
Gradually, the tawny depths lost their coldness and instead mellowed to the hue of sun-warmed honey. His hand reached out, as if to caress her cheek, but his fingers curled into a fist, and he pulled away.
“I’ll load the rest of the baggage,” he said.
Keen disappointment from the denial of his touch, the hope of it, held Sonnie frozen, and she found herself in need of several moments to regain the aplomb that, surprisingly, his heated look had shaken. Drawing in a breath, she stood a little straighter, pivoted, and returned to the house to tend to her father.
* * *
Lance contemplated the Mancuso entourage as it pulled away from the Big House and headed toward Cheyenne. Six outriders rode ah
ead, each carrying a loaded rifle in a scabbard positioned for easy reach. They flanked the shiny stagecoach, and in spite of the protection they offered, Lance wondered if it was enough.
He couldn’t risk another attack on Sonnie like the one during her homecoming--or one on Vince, for that matter--and he’d strictly ordered his men to keep a sharp eye on the Wyoming rangeland for any sign of reprisal.
Especially from Clay Ditson and Snake. Burning their supplies stockpiled in Silver Meadow had produced no response from them, and Lance grew increasingly edgy from their silence. He preferred a confrontation to not knowing their whereabouts; he was certain Ditson wouldn’t let the matter go without retaliation.
Nor had Lance heard from Torn Horn. Irritation roiled through him at the gunfighter’s arrogance in neglecting to give them a decision. Would he hire on as range detective and help the cattlemen in their war against rustlers, or wouldn’t he? Too much time had passed already. They had to get their herds back to recoup their losses and put a stop to the thievery.
The cheerful morning sun kissed the countryside with brilliance. Through eyes shadowed by his hat’s brim, he scanned the familiar lay of the land and realized the stagecoach traveled parallel to Silver Meadow.
He decided to make a quick investigative side trip. Setting his spurs to his horse’s ribs, Lance rode up beside Charlie, one of the outriders guarding the rear of the stagecoach.
“Want to ride with me to Silver Meadow?” he asked over the rumble of the wheels. “Won’t take but a few minutes.”
“Sure.” Charlie shot a glance in that direction. “Best you don’t go by yourself, anyway.”
“I want to have a look around. Doubt we’ll find much,” Lance said. “Ditson’s been too quiet, and he’s too smart to be lazy. I’ll tell Vince and Sonnie we’re leaving.” He whistled sharply to the man in the driver’s seat. “Cookie, pull up.”
Cookie lifted a hand in acknowledgment. With a jingle of harnesses, the horses lumbered to a stop, and Lance reined in closer to the stagecoach. Leaning from the saddle, he opened the door.
Inside, Vince sat on the leather seat with a brightly colored afghan over his lap. A week-old copy of the Cheyenne Daily Sun engrossed him. From her seat on the opposite side, Sonnie’s curious glance met Lance’s.